In Lieu of a Power Nap
by Tobiume
Summary: Mirage finds herself distracted from her work. Syndrome stops by and helps her refocus.


In Lieu of a Power Nap

* * *

The gentle clicking of the keys soothes her, and despite the smooth, bright glow of her screen, Mirage finds her mind beginning to drift away from her research. Her thoughts are suddenly hard to hold on to, and her head tips slowly to one side. Then a sound snaps her back to alertness, although she can't say what it is she's heard. A door sliding open? Booted feet stamping across the floor? She focuses on the computer again, flexing her fingers as she tries to find where she left off reading.

Boots click on the floor behind her. "Tired?"

Mirage leans back into the heavy hand that's now resting on her shoulder. "No, only my eyes."

Syndrome pushes back her chair and spins it so that she's facing him. He flashes a cocky grin that she can't help but return. "Give 'em a rest, then." Leaning over her, he pulls her chin up to kiss her, then bites her lower lip, tightening his grip on her shoulder. She reaches up to undo the belt on his suit as his hand moves over her breasts. His mouth is still on hers, his teeth nipping at her, his tongue teasing at her parted lips, as he fumbles at her jacket, pushing it from her shoulders. Then she takes over, unbuttoning her own blouse, as he invariably ends up yanking it and ripping off buttons. _"They're too small for my hands," _he always complains.

When she reaches to unfasten her skirt, though, he stops her, pushing her back down into her chair. "Can you- ?" His voice is both shy and eager as he gestures to his cock, which is free of clothing and fully erect.

Mirage smiles up at him. "But of course." Her mouth encloses him. He tastes clean, mostly, but faintly of sweat, which she likes. Wiry red curls of hair brush her lips as she bobs her head, running her tongue in loose paths along his cock. Sighing lengthily, he knots his hands in her hair. She doesn't care for the tangles he leaves behind, but she enjoys the feel of his hands.

He grunts and groans, and then he's had enough. He jerks back and yanks her to her feet, tugging at the zipper of her skirt before giving up and saying, with great impatience, "Take that off!"

She does, keeping her face turned down so he won't see her smile. Letting the skirt fall to the floor, she steps out of it and then looks up through lowered lashes, watching him admire her. All she's wearing now are her favorite undergarments, a black silk and lace brassiere and thong, and black stiletto heels. Mirage likes expensive undergarments, and Syndrome pays her well enough to afford them. He also likes to see her in them when he stops in during the workday, so she always obliges.

"Now these," he says, pushing down one side of her panties. She slips them off, feeling wetness as they slide down her leg. Then without warning he grabs her, turns her around, pushes her down onto her desk, and then, after some fumbling (not much, because they do this so very often), he enters her.

He goes in easily, of course. She's been wet since she felt his hand on her shoulder. Mirage lets him thrust into her for a few long, enjoyable minutes, pushing back against him as he moves. His hands are all over her, touching whatever he can reach: her belly, her sides, her breasts. He pulls down the strap of her brassiere and crushes her breast under his hand, pinching her nipple, reaching down with his other hand to rub between her legs, groaning as his fingers slip against her skin. Mirage moans as he leans in to bite her neck and then her shoulder, pulling a long cry from her dry mouth. She shoves back hard against him, once, feeling him very deep inside, and then pulls away.

"Sit, please." She points to her chair. When he obeys, grinning, she climbs on top of him. He gathers her hair in one of his hands, wrapping it around his fingers, pulling it occasionally, usually when he groans, as she rides him. They both like this, but Mirage prefers it because they can both climax, usually within a few minutes of each other.

She feels the heat building low in her thighs before long, and her toes begin to curl up. Her head feels too heavy for her neck and she can't keep from digging her fingernails into Syndrome's shoulder. He doesn't mind, though: his thighs are twitching. It seems he's also having trouble sitting still. Her body trembles, and thoughts she can't even grasp cross her mind. She thinks of his heavy hand on her shoulder and wonders how it would feel at her throat. Then the hot tight feeling inside her bursts, and she rocks back against him, still moving, but more slowly. He matches her pace and surpasses it, thrusting up from underneath her, and it isn't much longer before his motions become jerky and uncontrolled. Syndrome clutches her arms as he spasms against her, his shaky breaths spilling hot against her face.

When he's finally still, she waits the usual two minutes, resting her head against his chest, feeling sweat prickle along her hairline, counting down the seconds in her head. Then she climbs off his lap, gathers her discarded clothing, and steps into the adjoining washroom. When she returns, freshened and dressed, Syndrome is also clothed and is peering at her computer screen.

"Good work, Mirage. This is exactly what I was looking for. When will the next super be here?"

"He should arrive within the hour," Mirage says, after a quick glance at the large wall clock.

"Great! You know what to do."

"Of course," she says, with a small smile and a nod of acknowledgment.

"I'll see you at dinner," he says, and sweeps from the room.

Mirage sits back down to work, finding that it's no longer difficult to focus in the least.

Fin.


End file.
